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A bingdon’t country estate, Park House, was built to intimidate, not seduce.

The main staircase could have accommodated a cavalry charge, the ceilings were so high that every footfall came back as a tiny, shocked echo, and the entry hall was populated entirely by portraits of people who had either discovered continents or killed someone in a duel.

If one were to be married off into the upper crust of England, thought Chrissy, it might as well be into a family that had enough ancestral scandal to make even Shakespeare speechless.

After the wedding breakfast, after the fuss and the speeches and the endless toasts, the house emptied out with a hush so absolute it felt deliberate.

She stood on the marble landing, hands resting on the cold banister, staring down at the black-and-white tiles below.

For a moment she was a statue in her own right—until her husband’s footsteps, heavier and more certain, broke the spell.

She felt him before she saw him. The tension in her spine dissolved, replaced by a different kind of awareness, the sense of being watched, appraised, claimed. She braced herself and turned, meeting his gaze at the top of the stairs.

He wore the same shade of blue that had so undone her in London, but the lack of light turned his eyes a sharper, almost dangerous hue. His jacket was off, his shirtsleeves rolled, and the bruising under his left eye, courtesy of Abingdon, had faded from livid purple to faint yellow.

He crossed the space between them in three long strides. “I thought I’d lost you to the west wing. It’s been known to eat guests alive, you know.”

She tried for a smile, but nerves got in the way. “I was only—” She shrugged. “Getting used to the idea that this is mine now.”

His eyes softened. He offered his arm, and she took it, feeling the dense warmth of his body through the linen.“Walk with me?”

She nodded, and together they moved down the corridor, past gilt mirrors and the impassive stare of the family ancestors. The house was preposterous, but Gabriel moved through it as if it were an extension of himself, as if, by the force of his will alone, he could make the place feel like home.

He led her into the first of the smaller salons. Here, the scale was human, a low ceiling, a bright rug. There was a tray of sparkling wine and two glasses, and an arrangement of yellow roses that glowed in the light from a window.

Gabriel gestured to the settee, then poured them each a glass. He handed one to Chrissy, and when their fingers brushed, he lingered, tracing the edge of her knuckle with his thumb.

“To us,” he said, voice lower than before. “To a very long and interesting life.”

She raised her glass and managed, “To us,” then drained half of it in one go.

He watched her drink, and the look in his eyes made her want to hide, or possibly throw him onto the carpet and climb on top of him, depending on the moment.

She set the glass aside, hands trembling slightly.

He smiled, noticing. “Are you nervous?” he asked, not unkindly.

She met his gaze, cheeks hot. “Yes. I’m not sure what is expected of me, Nomansland.”

“Nothing is expected of you,” he said, and the certainty in his tone settled her more than anything else had.

He set his own glass down, then moved to sit beside her, close enough that their knees touched.

“Well, one thing. Call me Gabriel. Other than that, I only want you to be happy. And to occasionally let me kiss you senseless. But mostly the first thing.”

He reached out, cupped her face, and kissed her—soft at first, testing, then deepening as she leaned in, letting herself be caught up in the undertow. He tasted of wine and something darker, and for a moment she was lost.

When they parted, she found herself half-reclined against the cushions, Gabriel’s hand braced on the seat just behind her head. He looked down at her, and there was nothing of the conqueror in his expression—only an almost boyish longing, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he blinked.

She ran a finger along the edge of his collar, memorizing the texture of linen and the heat of his skin beneath.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to do next,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed, not at her, but with her—relief and desire braided together. “Would you like me to show you?”

She nodded.

He rose, holding out his hand, and led her from the salon, past more silent portraits, to the bedchamber at the far end of the house.

The bedchamber itself was so enormous it might have doubled as a ballroom in less ambitious homes.

The ceiling soared, a domed expanse painted with clouds and gods who looked on with mild disinterest at the doings below.

The furniture was all dark wood and velvet; a massive four-poster dominated the room, swathed in layers of blue and gold.

At the far end, a fire crackled in a marble hearth, and vases of flowers—roses, tulips, hyacinths—crowded every flat surface, their scent heavy and intoxicating.

Seeing her glance at the ceiling, he chuckled. “My ancestors never did anything by small measure.” He closed the door with deliberate care, then turned to her. For a moment they simply looked at each other, the gulf between old life and new measured in feet rather than years.

He stepped close, lifting her hand to his lips. “You are the most beautiful thing in this entire house. And I intend to make you the happiest woman in England, if you’ll let me.”

She blushed, but held his gaze. “That is a tall order, Your Grace.”

He grinned. “Good. I like a challenge.”

He drew her gently to the edge of the bed and sat, pulling her onto his lap. She giggled at the sudden shift, then stilled when his arms came around her, strong and sure.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and her heart seemed to slip its moorings. She let her hands wander, finding the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, the soft line where his hair met his neck.

He undid the fastenings at the back of her dress with deft, patient fingers. Each one was a tiny declaration, a promise that he knew what he was about and would take all the time she needed. When the bodice loosened, he paused, waiting for her to decide whether to move forward.

She did. She shrugged the sleeves from her shoulders, the fabric whispering down her arms. Gabriel watched, reverent, as more of her was revealed—first the pale skin of her clavicle, then the delicate rise of her breasts, pressed together by the stays beneath.

He traced the hollow of her throat with his lips, working his way down until he reached the laces of her stays. He made quick work of the ties, loosening them enough that she could breathe—really breathe—for the first time since morning.

She exhaled, and he laughed, kissing her bare shoulder.

The chemise beneath was soft, almost sheer, and her nipples pebbled against the linen as the cool air found them. Gabriel grazed them with his palm, slow and deliberate, and the jolt of sensation made her gasp.

“Is that all right?” he asked, voice thick.

She shivered. “Yes. More than all right.”

He explored further, running his hands over her waist, her hips, learning the landscape of her body as if it were a map he intended to travel for years. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, the edge of her jaw; he buried his face in her hair and breathed her in like she was the air he needed.

She lost track of time, of everything but the heat between them and the rush of her own heartbeat.

When he slid the chemise from her shoulders, she resisted the urge to cover herself. Instead, she looked him full in the face, daring him to find her lacking.

He did not. He gazed at her as though she were a work of art, something rare and dangerous and precious. He cupped her breast, thumb circling the nipple until she arched into his touch.

He lifted her as easily as if she weighed nothing, and set her gently in the center of the bed. The sheets were cool at her back, but she did not feel cold. She felt alive.

He stood above her, undressing himself with less ceremony. His shirt, his cravat, his trousers, each discarded with a casual grace that made her ache to touch him, to discover whether the muscles of his arms were as solid as they looked.

They were.

He lowered himself to the bed, bracing his weight on either side of her. He kissed her, tasting her from lips to chest to belly, each inch an adventure.

She fumbled at the waistband of his drawers, laughing at her own ineptitude, and he covered her hand with his, guiding her as she pushed the fabric down.

What she found—hard, hot, urgent—made her heart stutter. She wrapped her hand around him, tentative, and Gabriel made a noise so primal it thrilled her to the core.

He kissed her again, this time with his whole body, pressing against her until she could feel every ridge and line. His hands moved between her legs, finding the slickness there, and he groaned against her neck.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, his voice rough.

She nodded, but did not want him to stop.

He slipped a finger inside, slow and careful, watching her face for signs of discomfort. Instead, she found herself straining toward him, greedy for more.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So perfect.”

He worked her with his fingers, building pressure until she thought she might shatter. The fire, the flowers, the sensation—it all blurred together into one bright, impossible now.

When he finally entered her, it hurt—a sharp, quick pain—but he soothed her with kisses, with words she could not fully hear, and the pain faded, replaced by a fullness, a rightness, as though she had always been meant to have him there.

He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust, then faster as she wrapped her arms around him, holding on as if the world might tilt and send them flying.

She felt the pleasure build, crest, crash over her like a wave. She moaned his name, and that was all it took to send him over the edge.