Chapter Seven
Marianne woke to cold sheets and bruised lips.
The space beside her bore only the faintest impression of Adrian’s body, the pillow barely dented. If not for the delicious ache between her thighs and the tender marks she could feel on her skin—proof of his claim—she might have thought she’d dreamed the entire night.
Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, revealing the quiet wreckage of the Duke’s chambers. Her chemise hung from a bedpost. His cravat lay abandoned near the hearth. The sheets were twisted into knots that spoke eloquently of what had kept them awake until dawn.
But the Duke himself? Gone.
She sat up, drawing the sheet around her, and tried to orient herself. This was her life now—waking in Adrian’s bed, though not with Adrian—as the Duchess of Harrowmere. The weight of it settled over her like a heavy mantle.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Your Grace?” Sarah’s voice, tentative. “May I come in?”
“Yes, Sarah.”
Her maid entered, eyes carefully averted from the signs of chaos. “Shall I draw a bath, Your Grace?”
“Please.” Marianne winced as she shifted. “And perhaps... something for—”
“Mrs Brightley sent this.” Sarah held out a small jar of salve, cheeks pink. “She said you might have need of it. Newlyweds often do.”
“Thank you.” Marianne accepted it without comment. Best not to wonder how the housekeeper knew. “Where is His Grace?”
“In his study, I believe. He rides out early most mornings to inspect the estate, then works until luncheon.”
“I see.” So this was how it would be—nights of fire followed by days of absence. “And breakfast?”
“Served in the morning room at your convenience.”
Marianne allowed Sarah to help her bathe and dress, choosing a simple morning gown of pale blue muslin. Her body bore evidence of Adrian’s attention—a love bite on her shoulder, finger marks on her hips, whisker burn on her throat. Sarah said nothing, but Marianne caught her worried glances.
The morning room was bright and cheerful, overlooking gardens that stretched toward a distant lake. The sideboard groaned with enough food to feed a small army. But the table was set for one.
“Will His Grace not be joining me?” Marianne asked the footman.
“His Grace takes breakfast in his study,” he replied, expression neutral.
“I see. And his study is where?”
“The east wing, Your Grace. But His Grace prefers not to be disturb—”
“Thank you.” She smiled sweetly. “That will be all.”
She ate without tasting, the eggs and toast little more than habit.
This was not how she had imagined her first morning as a wife.
She had foolishly thought—what? That Adrian might wake her with a kiss?
That they might take breakfast together, perhaps even feed each other berries like lovesick fools?
Apparently, she was the only fool in the arrangement.
After breakfast, she set out to find her husband. The east wing was a maze of corridors, each more imposing than the last. She passed servants who bobbed quick curtseys but offered no assistance, their faces carefully blank. Finally, she heard voices from behind a heavy oak door.
“—railroad investments are sound, Your Grace, but the canal proposal—”
“Is idiotic. Tell Harrison that if he wishes to throw money away, he can do it with someone else’s fortune.”
Adrian’s voice—measured and businesslike. Nothing like the rough whispers of last night.
She knocked.
The voices stopped.
“Enter.”
She opened the door to find Adrian behind a massive desk, dressed impeccably in dark wool, looking every inch the duke. An older man—his steward, presumably—stood before the desk with a ledger.
Adrian’s eyes flickered to her, something unreadable passing through them before his expression shuttered. “Your Grace. How may I assist you?”
Your Grace. As if she were a caller, not his wife.
“I wondered…” She cleared her throat, attempting a lightness she did not feel. “I thought perhaps we might spend the morning together. You could show me the estate.”
“I am afraid that is impossible. Hendricks and I have considerable work. Perhaps Mrs Brightley can arrange a tour.”
The dismissal was clear. The steward, Hendricks, shifted uncomfortably.
“I see.” She lifted her chin. “And when might you be available for your wife?”
Something flashed in his eyes—heat, maybe, or anger. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“How very romantic.”
“Romance,” he said evenly, “was never part of our arrangement.”
The words struck like a blow. Last night, he had worshipped her body; this morning, he was a stranger made of ice and titles.
“No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t. How foolish of me to forget.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“Marianne.”
She paused, hand on the door. “Your Grace?”
A long silence. Then: “Hendricks, leave us.”
The steward bowed himself out. When the door shut, silence settled heavy between them.
“Look at me,” Adrian said.
“Is that a command?” She turned slowly, anger rising. “Shall I obey as promptly as I did last night? Or does your authority end with the dawn?”
His jaw flexed. “Last night was last night. Today—”
“Today you’re the Duke again, and I’m a distraction.” She stepped closer, close enough to smell his sandalwood cologne, to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Tell me, Adrian, when you touched me—when you were marking me with your mouth—was that merely part of the arrangement too?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t expect my husband to acknowledge me in daylight?”
“I gave you all I could give.”
“You gave me a night,” she countered. “I’m asking for days too.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect order. “This is how it must be.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t maintain distance—if I let you in completely…” He turned away. “I told you I wasn’t a good man, Marianne. Last night should have proved that.”
“Last night proved you’re a man who knows what he wants—and how to give pleasure. That’s hardly a crime.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” Her voice rose despite herself. “Explain why you can claim me so completely in the dark, but can’t bear to look at me in the light.”
He turned sharply, crowding her back against the desk. “Because in the dark, I can pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That this is real. That you wanted me for myself, not for the title that saves you. That when you look at me, you don’t see a scarred beast who bought you with his name.”
The raw honesty of it stole her breath. “Adrian—”
“Go.” His voice was harsh, the mask dropping back into place. “Explore the house. Reorganise the staff. Repaint every wall if it amuses you. But leave me to my work.”
“You’re a coward,” she said quietly.
His eyes flashed, dangerous and dark. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’ll remind me who commands whom?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “At least then you’d be honest about what you want.”
For a moment, she thought he might. His hands flexed; every muscle in his body was drawn taut. Then he turned away, as if fighting himself.
“Get out,” he said hoarsely.
She left, her head high, her heart in pieces.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of exploration and mounting frustration.
The house was magnificent but cold, more museum than home.
The servants were polite but distant, uncertain how to treat a merchant-born duchess.
Mrs Brightley dutifully showed her the accounts, the menus, the household schedules—but it all felt hollow, like playing at domesticity.
She found the music room by accident, tucked away in the south wing like a forgotten secret. Dust motes drifted through slanting sunlight, and a pianoforte sat beneath a holland cover like a sleeping beast. When she lifted the cloth, she caught her breath.
It was a Broadwood grand, its polished wood still gleaming despite neglect. She sat, fingers brushing the keys. The tuning was imperfect but serviceable.
She began to play—first a simple air her mother had taught her, then another, until the melodies wove one into the next. The sound filled the room, fragile but alive, chasing the stillness from the corners. She lost herself in it, in the rhythm and release.
“You didn’t mention you played.”
She didn’t startle. Somehow, she’d sensed him there, watching from the doorway.
“You didn’t ask.” She continued playing, eyes on the keys. “There’s quite a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Yes.” He stepped further in, his tread soft on the parquet. “I’m beginning to realise that.”
“Yet you married me regardless.”
“I’d have married you if you’d been mute, graceless, and dull as ditchwater.”
Her hands faltered on the keys. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because you wanted me.” She shifted to a darker tune. “But want isn’t enough, is it? Not for a lifetime.”
“It’s what we have.”
“Is it? Because from where I’m sitting—alone, I might add—it seems we don’t even have that. At least not outside your bedchamber.”
He was behind her now, close enough for his warmth to reach her back. “You’re angry.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“You’ve every right to be.” His hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder, his thumb brushing the faint mark he’d left there. “I handled this morning badly.”
“You handled it like a boor.”
Despite himself, he laughed—low, genuine. “That too.”
She stopped playing, turning to face him. He looked tired, she realised. Shadows under his eyes, tension in his shoulders.
“Why the distance, Adrian? Truly. Not your rehearsed explanations about protection and arrangements. The truth.”
He hesitated, studying her as though weighing whether she could bear it. “Because if I let myself have you completely, I’ll never let you go. And when you realise what you’ve bound yourself to—”
“You think I’ll leave.”
“I think you’ll wish to. And I won’t be able to let you.” His hand rose to her cheek, his voice roughening. “I’m not a good man, Marianne. I’m possessive, controlling—broken in ways you can’t yet see. Last night was barely a glimpse of what I want from you.”
“And if I want it too?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?” She stood, forcing him to step back. “You think you’re the only one with darkness? The only one who wants what the world calls improper?”
His brows drew together. “What could you possibly—”
“You,” she said simply. “I want you. All of you—the duke and the beast, the control and the chaos. But I won’t accept half-measures. Either be my husband, wholly, or tell me now that last night was all I shall ever have.”
He stared at her, conflict warring in his gaze. Then, without a word, he caught her to him, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was part apology, part possession. She answered with equal fervour, her hands sliding into his hair, meeting him with every ounce of defiance she had left.
“Tonight,” he said against her lips. “Come to my chambers tonight.”
“And tomorrow?” she whispered.
“Tomorrow...” He pulled back, his thumb tracing her swollen lips. “Tomorrow we’ll attempt breakfast together.”
It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.
Dinner that evening was formal and strained, the air thick with unspoken things.
Footmen moved like shadows, pouring wine, serving courses neither of them tasted.
Adrian spoke of estate matters, of tenant leases and neighbouring families, of the quiet burdens of a dukedom.
But his eyes betrayed him—they promised darker pleasures, private reckonings yet to come.
She found herself shifting in her seat, anticipation coiling low in her stomach.
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.