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Caleb had two glasses of lemonade in his hands; from the way he was squeezing them, they looked liable to shatter in his grip.Before any such disaster could transpire, he placed them, still full, on a nearby table and grasped Grace by the arm.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

Though Grace had wanted to leave, she’d wanted to do so of her own accord—not dragged behind her husband like a misbehaving puppy being brought to heel.

“Do notyankme, Caleb,” she insisted quietly. People were watching.

He lessened his grip, but did not release her entirely.

“Let’s go,” he said again.

Torn between making a scene—the primary thing she’d been raised to avoid—and acquiescing, Grace followed behind him, trying not to let it show on her face that she was growing angrier with every step.

She held her tongue until they were ensconced in their carriage and the last echo of the slamming of the door had faded. Once they were officially in private, however, she could hold it no longer.

“What,” she asked bitingly, “thehellwas that?”

Caleb—of course, she thought irritably—was entirely unmoved by either her temper or her language.

“That man,” he said, his tone suggesting she was stupid for even asking, “wastouchingyou.”

Grace let loose a derisive sound.

“He was beingkind. He was offering me his apologies for the wretched way that thetongossiped about me after my return. Something, that I might add,yougot upset about the other night at my father’s house, so I really don’t think you have a leg to stand on in all this.”

Caleb shook his head sharply, a dark lock of hair falling over his brow.

“Nay. That was different.”

She scoffed. “Indeed, it was. Because then, at least, we were away from prying eyes—among family. Now, however, the whole of thetonwill be gossiping about you being abrute?—”

He cut her off by reaching across the carriage, hooking her under the arms, and hauling her into his lap until she straddled him, her skirts a puddle between them. He moved his arms lightning fast to encircle her, holding her head so that he could not avoid his gaze.

“Look at me now,leannan,” he commanded as her heart pounded and her blood rushed—with anger, with desire. “Look at me and tell me if I care a feckin’whitabout what some noisy English gossips have to say about me.” His grin was wild and vicious, and it sent a thrill through Grace.

“In fact,” he said, using the grip on her head to press her forehead against his, “I welcome it. Let them call me a brute. Let them whisper that the Duke of Montgomery, the great Scottish beast, will rip apart anyone who dares to lay a single finger onhiswife.”

He ground his hips against her, and even against far too many layers of fabric, the movement made Grace go weak with longing.

“Caleb,” she moaned, no longer sure if it was protest or encouragement.

“Nay, Grace,” he said. One hand was on her lower back; he used the leverage to press her firmly against him, to hold her there, to prevent her from moving as she pleased. “Ye aremywife.Myduchess.Mine. Do ye hear me? I’m prepared to make certain that everybody knows who ye belong to, but I’m happy enough to start with ye, right here, right now. Do ye ken?”

There really wasn’t anything she could do, after that, but kiss him until her lips bruised with the force.

He met her accordingly, all lips and tongue and teeth. She opened her mouth to him, let him possess her; but she possessedhim, too, darted her tongue to feel him, pressed back into him with all the force that he was pulling her down atop him.

Maybe Caleb had a point, she thought dizzily—though not even in the midst of passion was she foolish enough to say that out loud, lest she be reminded of it every day for the rest of her natural life. Maybe there was something to be said for brutishness.

Because she wanted him marked as hers until nobody could doubt it.

Their movements grew messy, clumsy, frantic. Faint stubble was already growing on her husband’s cheeks, for all that it was barely teatime, and Grace relished the way it rasped against her sensitive skin. She wanted to feel that stubble everywhere—along her stomach, her breasts, the inside of her thighs.

She was nearly far gone enough in her lust-fueled haze to ask for such a thing when, suddenly, at the worst possible moment, the carriage drew to a halt outside of the Montgomery townhouse.

Caleb looked at the place like he was considering burning it to the ground.

“Feckin’ London,” he growled, not releasing Grace from his lap immediately. “Get where ye’re goin’ too bloody fast.” His accent had thickened with desire and, drat everything, it only stoked Grace’s fires even more.