Page 27

Chapter Twenty-Three

M arianne wondered why there was barely a breeze. Perhaps she was merely suffocating at the thought of appearing in Society for the first time as the Duchess of Oakmere.

Dominic had explained—rather stiffly—that they were attending a private theatrical performance at Lord Cheswick’s estate. It would be a short trip, no overnight stay, just enough to reintroduce her to Society without too much fanfare.

She understood her role: not quite a guest, more of a display. Still, it was a welcome reprieve from the silence and loneliness of the past few days.

The carriage trundled along a winding road leading to the Cheswick estate. It wasn’t a long trip, just as Dominic described, but it was a bumpy one.

At the end of some gently rolling hills stood Lord Cheswick’s residence. It wasn’t as large as Oakmere Hall, but it certainly glowed like a lantern, whereas the former would have remained dark and dreary.

Marianne gaped as the grand house came closer, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. She believed she looked enough like a duchess in her seafoam silk dress. She also had her dark curls pinned to one side, exposing her slender neck.

Meanwhile, Dominic looked as dashing as ever. Quiet, too. They had not spoken even once throughout the journey.

When the carriage door opened, Dominic transformed into the polite gentleman everyone expected him to be. He climbed out of the carriage first and offered his arm to Marianne.

“Shall we, Duchess?”

Even though he sounded polite, Marianne could still hear the distance in his voice. He was merely going through the motions, and it made her heart ache.

How long could she stand this?

She took his arm, anyway, just as committed to doing what was proper. She could not help but feel how solid he was beneath his clothes. Strong and muscular, Dominic Carlyle had achieved his physique through his work around the estate.

She reminded herself that they were supposed to move like a united front, a newlywed couple who was in love.

The ton might complain about not knowing about them beforehand, but they were there to dispel all fears and silence any gossip.

Still, it was hard to do when there wasn’t even a friendship between them.

What was there between them?

She hardly knew.

The drawing room was already full of people. Chairs were lined up to prepare for the performance. Guests were served flutes of champagne to sip from while waiting. The sounds of laughter and soft music mingled with clusters of conversation and the rustle of long dresses.

Marianne had seen balls and theater performances before. It came with being a marquess’s daughter. It was expected, or else her father would have just locked her inside the house. However, she had never been the object of people’s interest.

To her delight, the Earl and Countess of Darfield were there. Lord Darfield was Dominic’s friend, and she recalled that his wife had been kind to Elizabeth during the stag hunt.

“Ah! Finally, you’ve decided to show your wife to the rest of the world!” Lord Darfield exclaimed, clapping Dominic on the back and giving Marianne a bow.

“Well, it hasn’t been long, dear,” Lady Darfield said kindly. “They needed alone time.”

Marianne blushed. If only they knew what being alone with her husband entailed.

“I’m glad to see the two of you again,” she said.

“Likewise, Your Grace,” Lady Darfield returned with a smile. “I always welcome a chance to be in the company of other people.”

“Olivia!” Lord Darfield complained. “I’m right here.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to say,” Lady Darfield explained. “Simon is a wonderful husband, but I also want to chat with other people. He wouldn’t be able to stop if it’s just him.”

“Ah,” Marianne said. “Well, in my case, I would have loved to hear more from my husband. What if we can find someone who is right in between?”

“Oh, I like the sound of that. What do you think, Simon?”

“I may be the loquacious type, but I’m certainly not going to accept my wife picturing herself with another,” Simon said, grinning so that everyone knew he was not taking it too seriously. “What do you think, my friend? Your wife calls you too quiet.”

“My wife may call me whatever she pleases,” Dominic merely grunted, sipped from his flute, and looked away.

Despite their differences in personalities, the conversation among the four had been going smoothly. Then, a man Marianne did not know approached them.

“Your Grace,” he drawled. “I must commend your shot during Lord Grisham’s stag hunt. I’ve heard it was a clean shot. Well done! You are a rare talent.”

“I do what I can,” Dominic said simply.

“Well,” Marianne commented, unable to stop herself, “I find it curious how many people, particularly men, consider a hunt like that a sport. It only leads to the slaughter of innocent creatures.”

She felt Dominic stiffen beside her, but she could not bring herself to say sorry. She had started liking her husband more, but the mention of the stag hunt made her remember why they were at odds from the very beginning.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace?” the lord asked, looking utterly shocked.

“My lord, hunting is cruel,” she clarified. “It is unnecessary. It is a misplaced display of dominance.”

“Perhaps you mistake the purpose of a hunt. Remember that animals need to be hunted to bring food to the table. Not to mention the years of tradition behind it,” Dominic argued.

“Not every tradition needs to be upheld. Let us speak plainly: a stag hunt is little more than a display of class and masculine supremacy. It asserts man’s dominion, not only over his fellow creatures but also over the entire world.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but if I recall correctly, Lord Grisham— your father —hosted a stag hunt recently,” the lord remarked, looking bewildered.

“It was indeed her father,” Dominic confirmed with a smirk. “Pardon my wife, my lord. She adores debates. Even if that means playing the devil’s advocate every now and then.”

“Ah, but of course! What a rigorous intellect your wife possesses, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, she keeps me on my toes,” Dominic said lowly, narrowing his eyes at Marianne.

A tense silence ensued.

Lady Darfield was the first one to buckle under the pressure.

“Shall we find out seats, then?” she asked lightly.

With perfect timing, Lord Cheswick appeared to greet his guests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The performance is about to begin.”

Marianne walked beside Dominic, still fuming. Judging by the sharp set of his jaw, he felt much the same. Yet there was no avoiding it—they had to sit together, or else they’d invite the scrutiny of every whispering tongue in the room.

Rows of chairs had been arranged before a modest stage framed by makeshift velvet drapes. Marianne had to admit—if the elegance of the preparations were any indication, the performance promised to be impressive.

Dominic guided her to a seat with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Even that brief contact thrummed with tension. She could feel it in him—the tight coil of restraint beneath his composed exterior.

The music began.

Marianne forced her thoughts to the stage, willing herself to be swept away by the performance. But then his leg brushed hers—warm and unyielding—a subtle reminder of the man beside her and how he’d felt in her arms.

Then, without warning, his hand settled on her thigh.

Her breath caught. A flicker of heat curled low in her belly. She didn’t dare look at him, barely trusted herself to breathe, but every nerve in her body was suddenly, undeniably awake.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Dominic leaned in, his voice low and dark. “Teaching you a lesson about antagonizing me in public. And reminding you of our agreement.”

She glanced up—his smirk was infuriating.

Oh, he is enjoying this.

His fingers pressed more firmly against her thigh, slow and deliberate. Marianne tried to focus on the stage, on the music, on anything but the heat crawling across her skin.

Don’t look this way. Please, no one looks this way.

Thank God the audience’s attention remained focused on the performance, the seating dimmed by design. But she knew —if she so much as twitched, he would push further.

And he did.

His hand slid higher, caressing her through the layers of her gown. The silk felt impossibly thin under his touch. Her breath hitched as his fingers reached the apex of her thighs—bold, maddeningly slow, and achingly precise.

“Stop,” she hissed, though even speaking felt like a betrayal of her crumbling composure.

Her body betrayed her faster—her muscles tensed, her pulse quickened, and warmth gathered where he touched. She caught his wrist and squeezed hard, silently asking him to stop.

But not before it happened.

She throbbed beneath his fingers, her body alive and alight.

He leaned in again, his voice like silk over steel. “Do not provoke me again, little doe. Next time, I’ll have you on your knees.”

Is it a threat? A promise?

Marianne sat still, her shallow breaths betraying her. Her cheeks burned not just from shame or fury, but from the way arousal still curled low in her belly. She forced her thighs apart, refusing to press them together and savor the lingering ache.

The play ended. She remembered none of it. Not a single line. All she could recall was the heat of his hand, the smugness of his smile, and the humiliating way her body had responded to him.

Guests began to rise, chattering eagerly about the performance. A small group gathered around them.

“Your Grace,” one guest asked Dominic, “what did you make of the final monologue?”

Marianne’s stomach sank. Did he even listen?

Dominic’s gaze slid to her, that mischievous glint breaking through the usual shadows. “It was rather rousing, I must say. Though I would have liked to see a climax. I’m afraid there was none.”

The scoundrel.

Marianne smiled tightly, her nails biting into her gloves to keep her fury—and mortification—from showing.