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Chapter Seventeen

“ I cannot believe this,” Marianne whispered.

Beside her, Elizabeth stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her eyes were rimmed red, tears welling. Yet, throughout it all, she smiled.

“It could be worse,” Elizabeth said softly. “But if you want to run away, you can. I will help you.”

Marianne blinked, startled. Her sister—timid, obedient Elizabeth—offering rebellion? A way out?

And yet she could not take it.

“No,” she murmured. “You know I can’t do that. Not to you. Not to Wilhelmina and Victoria, who are likely trying to put frogs in someone’s teacup right now.”

“They should behave better,” Elizabeth replied with surprising firmness.

“They are still children. And Father will always find a reason to mete out punishment,” Marianne said, her voice hollow. “Whether it’s me or one of you, it won’t matter. He’ll twist it until it does.”

Elizabeth sighed, her hazel eyes dim in the mirror’s reflection.

She sat stiffly on the edge of the chaise, her blonde hair pinned in a demure coronet of curls.

The soft ivory muslin of her gown, embroidered with tiny violets, made her look more like a delicate porcelain doll than a person who might speak her mind.

And yet, she did. “That’s true. But still, you don’t have to marry the Duke for us. If your heart says no, if it feels like a prison… flee. I’ll help you cover your tracks. I’ll say you were taken by fairies.”

Marianne let out a short, dry laugh. “If I flee, I’ll be ruined. Cast out. And I may never see any of you again.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. They looked like two strangers caught in the same storm—daughters trapped by a father’s pride and Society’s design.

Marianne reached for Elizabeth’s hand and held it tightly.

“I won’t run,” she said quietly. “I’ll marry the Duke. But I’ll always, always be there for you.”

The wedding followed not long after. It was respectable enough to meet Society’s expectations, complete with a few carefully selected guests and all the appropriate titles whispered in reverence.

But it was also small and subdued, bearing the quiet austerity that suited both bride and groom. There were no grand carriages or extravagant flower displays. Only a solemn church, a few curious eyes, and a girl in ivory silk who had made her choice.

Marianne wore a pale ivory, lace gown. It was delicate. A dusky rose sash accentuated her waist, while everything else was plain—the veil, the gloves.

Even though she did not want to admit it, the Duke looked dashing in his black tailored suit. She was not too pleased, however, with his cold expression. It made the whole affair seem more like the business transaction it truly was.

He did remain calm, and his voice was steady. He wanted this marriage to happen, although Marianne was still too bewildered to understand why.

Why would anyone willingly tie themselves for life with her father?

Despite the questions that bothered her, she did her part as the bride. She suppressed the tremors racking through her. She would hold herself together, having learned the importance of not showing any weakness.

When the ceremony concluded, Elizabeth and Daphne rushed to her and gave her tight hugs.

“I-I can’t believe you’re married,” Elizabeth whispered, trying her best to blink her tears away. “I wish you could see yourself. You are such a beautiful bride, Marianne.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Daphne cried. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and wiping them. “I—we are going to miss you.”

Marianne’s throat felt tight. She tried her best not to cry. Not here, not in front of the Duke or her father.

“So, does that mean I won’t get any more lectures?” Wilhelmina asked, trying to inject mischief into her words, but she was also getting teary-eyed.

Marianne could not help but chuckle, even as she wiped some tears away. “I guess not, Mina.”

To complete the line of sisters, Victoria stepped forward, her chin lifted and her arms crossed. At just twelve, she carried herself like a general preparing for battle. Her eyes scanned her sister’s new husband with mock severity.

“You’d better take care of my sister, Your Grace,” she said, her tone sharp and clear. “If anything happens to her—like tripping on a rug or catching a chill because someone left a window open—I will write to every scandal sheet in London. And I’ll make sure they print it.”

Dominic blinked, visibly unsure whether she was joking. She wasn’t smiling.

“I see,” he said after a beat, recovering his composure. “I shall be very careful with the rugs, Lady Victoria.”

Victoria gave a single, satisfied nod, as though that settled the matter. But before turning away, she added under her breath, just loud enough for Marianne to hear, “You deserve someone who’ll fight for you.”

Marianne’s throat tightened. She reached for her sister’s hand, but Victoria had already stepped back into the line, her arms crossed once more.

Lady Victoria, indeed. Unlike her sweet twin, Daphne, the girl had yet to behave like a lady, but Marianne would do anything for her.

Altogether, her sisters’ sentiments were choking her. How could she leave these precious girls with her father?

When her father approached, she attempted not to show him how unsettled she felt. How shaken.

“Well done,” he whispered when he leaned close. “For once, you have proven yourself useful.”

The venom was for her alone. When he straightened to greet the others, everyone could see a smiling marquess, happy that his eldest daughter had finally married.

Deep inside her, Marianne felt a chill. Somehow, she believed that her trials with her father were not over.

She found no words to give. Even if she had them, her voice refused to come.

“Your sisters and I are returning to London. Your sister still has the Season ahead of her, after all,” her father added, and Marianne sensed a silent threat within his words.

Frozen, she moved on instinct alone, her fingers brushing the Duke’s sleeve as she took his proffered arm.

The carriage waited at the end of the steps. Before she could gather her thoughts, they were inside, already on their way to Oakmere.

Married .

The word settled like a stone in her chest. Technically, yes, they were married. But in truth?

She had no idea what any of it meant.

Not yet.

The carriage rumbled steadily as they rode deeper into the countryside. Marianne didn’t mind living away from London because she’d grown up in the countryside, yet she still felt a sense of foreboding.

Hills and trees blurred together in grey-green shadows, almost forming one large silhouette.

The silence inside the carriage was overwhelming. The Duke sat with his legs stretched out before him as if it was the most natural thing in the world—to be married to a woman who was not able to make much of a choice about it.

Marianne’s back remained rigid, her gaze fixed pointedly on the landscape.

“Are you upset? You have been quiet the whole time,” the Duke finally noted.

“I assumed that you may want me to remain quiet, Your Grace,” Marianne replied. “A wife who doesn’t bother you.”

“Is that what you think, little doe?”

Marianne pulled back. She didn’t care for it when he called her that—at least, most of the time. And yet something about the way his voice dipped when he said it made the name feel… less objectionable than it ought to have been.

On occasion, it was more than tolerable. His voice had an irritating talent for slipping beneath her skin, leaving an unwelcome thrill in its wake.

“I am not certain about your wishes, Your Grace. You’ve never made them clear. You asked my father for my hand, and, as with all things from him, it came as an order. I was given no choice in the matter.”

“I thought I made my wishes clear,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “when I asked to marry you.”

Marianne glared at her new husband because how could it be so simple for him?

“I still do not understand. Yes, you declared your intention to marry me, but there is any number of debutantes who would have leaped at the chance. You could have chosen any of them.”

“Debutantes are always performing, never sincere. I’ve seen enough masks to know when someone is playing a part,” the Duke said without much feeling, but she could see something else in his eyes.

Fire .

“What am I, then? A novelty? A test of your tolerance, Your Grace?” she asked, shaking her head with a bewildered laugh. “Was it amusing to you, choosing the lady no one else wanted? The one who eschews meat and lectures on the mistreatment of animals?”

“I’ve never been interested in easy prey,” he whispered darkly, leaning so close she could feel his breath on her face, blended with his masculine scent.

Mint and spice. So intoxicating she had to remind herself to breathe.

“You’re a brute,” she snapped, heat rising in her voice. “How dare you think of me as prey?”

“Don’t you like it, Duchess?” he murmured. “Being pursued. Cornered. Seen.”

Marianne’s breath hitched. She should have moved. Should have turned away. But something about him—his voice, his eyes, the quiet certainty in his words—held her fast.

“You don’t know me well enough to assume what I like,” she said sharply, leaning back but keeping her gaze steady on him. “And don’t flatter yourself by comparing me to some game you hunt for sport. I am no quarry, Sir. I am your wife .”

The Duke’s eyes darkened, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“My wife, indeed,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “Yet you speak too soon, dear. I think you’ll enjoy the chase. Even crave it.”