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Chapter Twenty-Nine

“ Y ou’re holding me as if you mean to claim me. Right here. In front of everyone,” Marianne murmured, her lips barely grazing Dominic’s ear as they glided through the dance.

Her head hovered near his shoulder, dangerously close to resting there. Her breath was unsteady. Her heart was pounding.

A grand ball was all Marianne and Dominic needed to add to the tension.

The Duke of Wessex’s grand ball was well-known for being extravagant. Everything seemed to shine as people danced enthusiastically, whether they had a talent for it or not.

Dominic’s hand flexed subtly at her waist. “Is that what you think, little doe? I thought I already had,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“You know I’m not a prize to be displayed,” she replied, her tone more warning than flirtation.

His gaze never left hers. “No. Never that. You’re the most elusive prey I’ve ever chased. A storm. A myth. And still, I run after you.”

“Chased?” she echoed. Her smile was brittle. “Forgive me, but men who chase don’t usually vanish mid-hunt.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you want me to pursue you while you tend your cat and goat? I know when I’m not wanted, Marianne. I’ll always be there—but only if you want me.”

“So you don’t force maidens to give you heirs?” she asked lightly, but her voice faltered.

Her cheeks flared pink the moment the question left her lips.

“I told you. I don’t,” he said. There was an intimate note in his voice that warmed her ears. “And now you understand why. I’m a hunter, yes, but only to a certain point. I want my woman to come willingly.”

“Mmm. And you wouldn’t want her to go willingly to someone else, would you?” she asked, playing with fire. She knew it. And still, she watched him burn.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The swirl of the final steps, the tightening of his grip, the set of his jaw—those said enough.

It was at that inconvenient moment that Lord Darfield appeared, grinning like the devil, a glass of brandy in hand.

“Well done! You didn’t even step on her hem,” he praised. “Olivia and I must work harder.”

“Go away,” Dominic said darkly, not even bothering to mask his glare.

Unbothered, Lord Darfield merely laughed as his wife approached with Elizabeth.

Lady Darfield, glowing in coral silk, looked between them with a teasing smile.

“You two were nearly indecent,” she noted. “I feared someone would ask you to leave the floor.”

“My wife actually blushed watching you,” Lord Darfield added, feigning solemness. “Rare, considering she married me.”

Lady Darfield swatted at his arm. “I was just relieved it wasn’t us causing scandal, for once.”

Marianne laughed, a soft thing she barely managed to catch before it slipped. But the moment shattered as she saw her father marching toward them.

“My dear,” Lord Grisham said smoothly, “you mustn’t refuse the next request.”

Marianne tensed. “Which one?”

“That would be me,” came a voice from behind.

Lord Linpool stepped forward, all too pleased with himself.

“My wife is not dancing with you,” Dominic snapped, stepping between them.

Marianne placed a hand on his chest. Calming. Anchoring.

“Please don’t make a scene,” she whispered. “We’re married, but Elizabeth is not. Think of her reputation.”

Dominic’s jaw worked, but he stepped aside, his eyes blazing.

Linpool laughed lightly, but something in it grated on her nerves. “Always a pleasure to dance with a distinguished member of the ton, Your Grace.”

He signed her card, then Elizabeth’s. Marianne’s stomach lurched—a familiar knot tightening in her chest. Her father’s handiwork, no doubt.

Was Linpool his spy? Charming his way into their trust, gathering whispers beneath the polite veneer of a dance?

Still, she extended her hand, steady despite the unease curling inside her.

If Dominic was fire, Linpool was ice. His gaze was sharp, calculating—watching her not with desire, but with a cold, clinical precision that sent a chill straight through her.

“So,” Linpool said too casually as his fingers curled around hers, guiding her into the first step of the dance, “what made you marry a man like the Duke?”

She smiled, polite but guarded, letting him believe she was soft, pliable. “It’s thrilling,” she replied, stepping lightly in time with the music, “a contest of wills. He’s a hunter; I don’t even eat meat.”

Linpool chuckled low and pleased, clearly savoring the morsel she’d offered. Let him think she’d slipped.

“Fascinating,” he murmured as they twirled, his grip firm but not unkind. “And in conversation, how does he hold up?”

She met his eyes briefly, cool and unflinching. “He does well enough.” Her gaze already hunted the room, searching for Dominic.

Where had Dominic gone?

Hunter, indeed .

The man disappeared far too often for someone who claimed to chase.

Later, Dominic found a way to dance with Marianne once more. As they swayed across the dance floor, they nearly bumped into Simon and Olivia.

“You should have seen him while you danced with the Viscount,” Simon said, leaning in as though divulging a scandal. “He was smoking .”

“Smoking?” Marianne echoed, wrinkling her nose as she imagined musty rooms and bitter tobacco.

“Not that kind, Your Grace. He was on fire . Positively burning with jealousy.”

“Was he?” she murmured, arching an eyebrow at her stone-faced husband.

The music played on, and soon Simon and Olivia spun away, leaving her and Dominic alone again. She suspected he’d maneuvered the dance to make it so. When the music ended, he didn’t say a word—just took her hand and steered her toward the refreshments table.

“I warned you about Linpool,” he said quietly.

“All these warnings,” Marianne sighed, “and yet not a drop of jealousy? I feel like a hag.”

Dominic’s mouth twitched as if struggling to suppress a smile. He said nothing, but his fingers closed more tightly around her wrist—not painfully, but enough to remind her how strong he was. She wished he’d tighten it more. Just a little.

She was spiraling again. That familiar heat pooled low in her belly—the one that always came when he touched her. When he kissed her. Too rarely, in her opinion.

“I’ll never admit to it,” he murmured. His gaze dipped, heavy-lidded now.

Desire .

Yes. That was it. Like a rope winding hot and slow around her body.

“Perfect,” she said airily, “because I don’t need a jealous husband.”

Dominic’s eyes flashed, but there was no hatred in them. Only heat. Possession. A silent dare.

When he grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the ballroom, she didn’t resist.

She let herself be caught.

Dominic’s hand was still around Marianne’s wrist. The same possessive pulse as before throbbed beneath his fingers. Only now, it felt deliberate.

He led her out of the ballroom, and the noise faded behind them, swallowed by the hush of the corridor.

She half-stumbled after him—not because he dragged her, but because her legs didn’t seem to work properly. They felt unsteady. Weak.

They moved through shadowed hallways, deeper into the quiet. The silence pressed around her, heavy and sharp.

How could the absence of sound feel so loud?

Still, Marianne couldn’t help but wonder. What was her husband thinking? Part of her longed to know; the other feared it. She didn’t want to wake him from whatever spell he was under.

When his hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer as they rounded a corner, her breath caught. Her body molded against his, her skin flushing with heat.

Every sensation was heightened. She felt the rustle of her skirts brushing the wall, saw the slant of moonlight painting half his face in silver.

His blue eyes locked onto hers—intense, questioning, hungry. While Linpool’s gaze had skimmed the surface with open admiration, Dominic’s gaze gripped her—rooted in her bones, tangled around her soul.

“Dominic,” she gasped, caught between indignation and desire. “W-What are you?—”

“I saw you,” he growled. “With Linpool.”

He said the Viscount’s name like it was poison on his tongue.

“Of course, you did. He approached us,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“That’s not what I meant. I saw how you looked at him. How you liked it—his attention.”

“His attention?” Her breath hitched, equal parts anger and confusion. “Have you not heard of social graces ?” She was already reeling from the confrontation, from everything left unspoken. “It was one dance, nothing more.”

“Social graces?” he echoed, his voice darker now. “Is that what we call openly flirting while married? He was disrespectful , and you let him. He didn’t stop even with me standing right there.”

His anger boiled over, controlled but fierce.

Marianne bristled. She hadn’t come to London to flirt. She’d come for her sister. She was doing her best, navigating a world that had shifted under her feet. And now she was being accused, when she hadn’t even wanted this marriage in the first place.

“So what if I did like it?” she challenged, lifting her chin. They were standing too close. She could feel his heat, his breath, the full weight of his attention. “Do you plan to drag me away from every man who dares to look at me? Do you think I’m so weak I’d humiliate you in public?”

“It’s not about weakness,” he bit out. “And I don’t give a damn what people think of me.”

His hand gripped her waist more firmly, his fingers digging into the fabric of her gown—branding her through it. She realized how easily he could take more of her. All of her.

“It’s about him, Marianne. Not you. Linpool isn’t harmless. He’s a predator .”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. There was something in Dominic’s voice—something deeper than jealousy. His skin vibrated with tension. Rage, yes. But also… fear? Possession?

She believed him. She did.

“You warned me,” she said, her voice softer now. “And I’m listening. I believe you. I can see how much you hate him. But think about this: one, we did not marry for love. Two, you do not own me. Three, I am not fragile. Stop hiding things from me. Be direct with me, Dominic. I can take it.”

She meant it. She could take it.

But what came next still took her by surprise.

She opened her mouth to say more, but his was already on hers.