Page 28

“Oh? Well, yes, Your Grace,” the guest mumbled, stumbling for words, clearing stumbling to agree with the Duke even if he didn’t know what he was talking about, “It did seem lacking in that aspect, I suppose.”

Dominic glanced at her, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Although she tried schooling her face into a neutral expression, the heat in her cheeks would simply not subside. Nor did the memory of the way he’d caressed her thighs.

The hidden depths of her flesh quivered, lamenting, aching to feel him once again.

As though he could read her thoughts, Dominic’s smirk became evident, more smug than ever.

Before he could torture her further, their host approached, leading the cast of the performance. Swiftly, he introduced the lead actor, Mr. Laurence Godwin.

Mr. Godwin moved like someone entirely too aware of being watched, every step perfectly measured, every smile dashed off like a signature.

As he stepped forward, Marianne took a better look at him.

She supposed he was handsome in the way certain statues were: cold, symmetrical, and likely to tip over at the faintest breeze.

“My lords, my ladies, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank you so much for bestowing your attention on us,” Godwin said, before his gaze landed squarely on Marianne. “And this vision beside the Duke of Oakmere must be his Duchess if I am not mistaken.”

“How did you—?” she began, startled.

“Lord Cheswick mentioned that a lovely duchess was in attendance. I see he did not exaggerate. You’re even more mesmerizing up close, Your Grace.”

Marianne’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t used to such flattery, and it felt very odd to her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dominic stiffen. His jaw clenched, and the glare hardening his features—which he directed at the actor—could have peeled paint.

“You flatter me, Sir,” Marianne replied with a practiced laugh. “I should be the one complimenting your performance.”

“Now, with those shimmering eyes of yours on me? No, you flatter me , Your Grace.” Godwin winked.

Marianne could only offer a polite smile in return, for no one—apart from her sisters and perhaps Daniel once or twice—had ever winked at her.

Dominic opened his mouth, still glaring daggers at Godwin, but a voice cut him off.

“Good evening, Lord Cheswick. My heartfelt apologies for arriving late,” a man said, his voice saccharine sweet.

Marianne turned in the man’s direction. He was older than Dominic by a few years, and handsome in an ordinary way, but his eyes were sharper, watchful in a way that suggested he missed nothing.

“Lord Linpool!” Lord Cheswick called. “At last.”

She sensed something shift in Dominic. She had seen him tense before, had seen him furious. But this… this was colder. Deeper .

“Your Grace,” Linpool asked casually, “won’t you introduce me to the lovely lady at your side?”

Dominic didn’t bother disguising his distaste. “Lord Linpool, may I present my wife, the Duchess of Oakmere. Duchess, this is the Viscount Linpool, an… old acquaintance.”

Marianne curtsied to the Viscount. “It is a pleasure meeting you, my lord.”

“Ah. Well, you are fortunate indeed, Your Grace,” Linpool said with a smile that somehow showed teeth. “Your hunting skills have finally yielded a prize worth keeping.”

Marianne chuckled politely. “You gentlemen flatter me too much.”

“Absolutely not, Your Grace,” Linpool said, his voice light. “Your flatterers, including myself, speak only the truth. Such a graceful lady like you must be cherished at all times.”

Marianne blinked and offered a tight smile, still unsure how to handle such compliments—and because something about the Viscount’s tone did not sit well with her.

“We’re leaving,” Dominic announced abruptly. “Lord Cheswick, thank you for your hospitality, but the hour grows late.”

Lord Cheswick blinked. “Oh, but so soon? Are you feeling unwell, Your Grace?”

“I shall be fine by morning.”

With a rushed series of goodbyes, Dominic seized Marianne’s arm and guided her out into the night.

“Did you enjoy their attention, Marianne?”

There it was. Her name, spoken like a brand.

“W-What?” she asked.

“You cannot flirt with other men in front of me.”

“I wasn’t flirting! You can’t dictate what I say or who I speak to. At least they were civil. Of course, I didn’t believe them, but they were… kind.”

“ Kind ?” he echoed, incredulous. “That actor winked at you. And Linpool—do you believe that man meant no harm?”

His face was closer now, shadows cutting hard across his cheekbones. The carriage ran over a rut in the road, and he scooted nearer. The smell of champagne clung to him, along with something else. Something dangerous. Possessive. Hungry.

Marianne felt her skin flush beneath her gown, a traitorous bloom of warmth spreading down her throat and across her chest. He claimed he was the one not feeling well, but it was she who was burning.

Suddenly, the carriage hit a particularly rough patch, jolting them forward. This time, Dominic lurched closer—so close that his lips nearly brushed hers.

“You are mine, Marianne,” he said, his voice rough. “I will not tolerate anyone else trying to claim what’s mine.”

She ought to be furious. She had never belonged to any man—not her father, not any suitor, not even this maddening Duke. But her body betrayed her. That strange heat bloomed low in her belly, tightening with every heartbeat.

“You’re jealous,” she accused, her breath hitching. “Admit it. You’re jealous of them.”

“Not jealous,” he said, his lips curling into a cruel, possessive smirk. “But possessive . I’m guarding what’s mine. There’s a difference.”

Before she could reply, he reached for her—one hand at the nape of her neck—and pulled her into a kiss.

It was violent, demanding, and more feral than anything they’d shared before. She couldn’t breathe, but she didn’t push him away. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer.

Her mind whispered to her that this was wrong, over and over. That she had to refuse him. But her lips parted for his tongue, and her body pressed eagerly against his.

Dominic gripped her hip, dragging her onto his lap. Her skirts bunched around her thighs as she straddled him, breathless. He broke their kiss only to trail his lips down her neck, hot and relentless.

No protest came. Only moans. Pleas.

“You drive me mad,” he murmured against her skin. “From the first time I saw you jump in front of my rifle, I didn’t know if I wanted to shout at you or kiss you.”

He pulled back just enough to grab the front of her bodice and tear it open.

She let out a loud gasp. She should be ashamed. She should cover herself. But all she could feel was his rough palms cupping her bare breasts, his thumbs rubbing her nipples into hard, aching peaks.

“Y-You can’t just do that,” she whispered. “Y-Your Grace?—”

“No. Forget the titles. Forget propriety. Here, you are my wife. Say my name instead,” he commanded, his voice gravely, ravenous.

Marianne shivered. She could not refuse him, not when he touched her like that.

“Dominic,” she breathed.

“Yes, that’s it. Good,” he growled.

His mouth closed over her breast, sucking deep and slow, and she arched against him with a soft cry. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as he lavished her with his tongue and lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he groaned, hovering over her other breast. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

But she could only whimper, lost in the sensation. When he took her other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, her hips rocked against him in a helpless rhythm.

Then, he pulled her off his lap and kneeled between her thighs on the carriage floor. Her skirts were pushed up, revealing soft, pale skin.

“W-What are you doing?” she stammered.

He didn’t answer—just gripped her hips and lowered his mouth to her core. He licked into her with hungry precision, as if he hadn’t tasted pleasure in years.

“Oh God!” she cried out, gripping the edge of her seat with one hand and cupping her breast with the other.

His tongue moved in perfect rhythm—lapping, sucking, teasing. Then came his fingers—one, then two—thrusting deep and slow as his mouth worked her clit. He held her thighs tightly, forcing her to take everything he gave.

The tension inside her spiraled higher, her moans growing louder with each flick of his tongue, each thrust of his fingers. And then she shattered.

Her vision blurred, her back arched, and she cried out as her body convulsed around his fingers.

“There she is,” Dominic murmured, kissing her inner thigh. “What a good girl.”