Page 32 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

With one last look at the dark room, he proceeded to his own. He was opening the buttons of his shirt as he opened the door. And stopped.

There on his bed was Marigold. The firelight caught her face as she was propped against his pillows. The shock was so great that Brandon forgot to breathe for a moment.

Marigold was wearing a nightgown that was clearly old if he were to judge by the faded linen and the mends he could clearly see. And yet this used nightgown was surprisingly flimsy, so much so that the firelight turned the thin fabric almost translucent.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Marigold said.

He could tell that she was trying to keep her nerves under control, but her fingers twisted in the bedsheet, and her breath came a little bit fast. Brandon overcame his surprise and closed the door behind him. But he could not take his eyes off her.

Marigold looked positively beautiful in this light. The fire traced the line of her jaw, her high cheekbones, and made those amber eyes glow like a tiger’s. He tried, he really tried, to keep his eyes on her face, but they betrayed him and went down that old gown to the shadow between her breasts, to the curve of her shoulder, the way the fabric swelled around her thighs.

A simple desire came over him, overpowering his logic, contract, decision, and arrangement. He wanted to rip that old gown off her. Feast on her naked body and then buy her ten new ones, so he could tear those too. It took every inkling of restraint that Brandon possessed to stop himself.

“Good evening to you too, Your Grace,” he finally responded. “May I inquire regarding the reason for your visit?”

Marigold sat up straighter in an attempt to gather her nerves, but she fisted the sheets almost in despair. Brandon did not like that he was not comforting her, instead causing her more uneasiness, but he knew this was for the best.

“I…” Marigold stammered. “I am doing as a wife should, Your Grace.”

Her words landed somewhere in his chest like a bullet, and he took one little step back. There were many things he could do right this moment when miracles were handed to him, but he decided the best course of action was to intimidate her and drive her away. It was by far the safest choice.

So, Brandon stalked towards the bed. He continued opening the top buttons of his shirt, thinking that if he could frighten her, she would simply leave and make his decision easier between choosing to be a duke or a husband.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, and he looked down on her. He was internally counting to see how fast she would look away or perhaps jump out of the bed. And yet she did none of those things. She looked up at him, her chin lifted slightly. A flicker of something close to defiance and that stubborn spine he had admired in the alley flashed in her eyes. It would take a little bit more to scare Marigold.

He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her. He did not touch her. Frankly, he didn’t trust himself touching her.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he asked, his voice low, “did you come here to offer yourself to me? Do you have any idea what that means?”

It gave him a dark satisfaction to see her swallow, but it was his eyes that watched her throat move. Any moment now. She would have to give up any moment now.

Instead, Marigold managed to find herself once more. Some of her confidence had withered, but she was not crying, not panicking, and certainly not fleeing his bed.

“We are married now.” Her voice was steady as the truth of her words hit him hard. “I do not need to offer myself to you. I am already yours.”

Yours. That simple word undid something in him that he didn’t know was tightened fast. His plan was not working, so he had only two solutions: either double down or kick her out downright.

Brandon climbed onto the bed, and Marigold instinctively fell onto her elbows. He positioned himself over her, his weight supported by his hands, his body hovering just above hers. He was careful not to touch her anywhere except the air between them. The heat from her body rose towards his, for a moment, confusing him.

With satisfaction, he saw the effect immediately. The steadiness of her breath was gone. Marigold could only take quick, shallow breaths, almost panting. He thought he had taught her a lesson not to provoke him from now on. His eyes drifted to her face, ready to see fear, to see those big amber eyes of hers wide open with terror, the same one she had when Donny threatened her in that alley.

But as his dark black eyes met her golden ones, there was no fear in them. She was regarding him with something more akin to curiosity. No, it was not curiosity, curiosity he would have handled. But that look of anticipation, even need, was the most dangerous thing he had ever faced.

Half committed to the plan, half losing the little control he had, he ran one hand lightly from her hip to the deep of her waist and then out to the side of her breast swelling under the thin linen. It was just a whisper of a touch, his fingers just sliding over her curves. Just a stark reminder that this was real. He let his hand linger on her breast as it grew heavier.

She didn’t flinch or recoil from his touch. If anything, her body arched just slightly, barely, towards his hand, while her breath caught. If Brandon thought that he was in danger before, now, he was behind enemy lines. This was not going according to plan, and for the life of him, he didn’t know if he was pleased or confused.

Brandon pulled his hand back and decided that he needed to end this, and end this quickly before it got out of hand completely.

“I did not know,” he said, forcing his voice to go harsh, “that I had married such a wanton woman.”

He immediately saw her eyes widen. Finally, a reaction that was closer to fear, something that he could work with.

“But then again, I don’t know why I am so surprised. I still remember the night I met you.” He took the knife and decided to press it deep. “You were trying to seduce me back then. Talking of repayment and bartering with your body?”

He watched her face as he spoke. He knew he was being deliberately harsh, but that was exactly the point. He expected some outburst, her pushing him away and calling him some name, or even a dignified silent exit. And yet he couldn’t tell what Marigold was thinking as she looked up at him. Perhaps the knife hadn’t reached a vital organ.

“What is going on now?” he almost growled. “The gang cannot sell you now, so you are doing it yourself?”