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With that, Nathaniel opened the door and stepped outside.

“Nathaniel!” Calliope said, walking out after him.

She had taken only a few steps across the landing when loud barking burst through the air, and three beasts ran towards her across the cobblestones several feet below, growling, barking, flashing their sharp white teeth. One of them was so tremendous, it looked like a short-haired bear on long legs. One was a little beagle, though it was barking just as fiercely. The third, probably a mutt, looked the most vicious. Sharp pain sliced Calliope’s arm and breast. White fur flashed against her face as a panicked, loud yowl burst through the air and the cat flew from her arms.

Terror raced through her like a war chariot, and Calliope gasped and mindlessly hurried backward on the landing. She’d never liked dogs, and these three had murder in their eyes, clearly ready to tear her apart…and her poor cat.

Closer and closer they came, almost at the stairs now, closer to her throat with those giant jaws and sharp fangs, especially that humongous one.

She took a few more quick steps, and her back bumped against something hard—the railing—then there was a wooden crack, and she was falling backward.

She flailed her arms, trying to grab on to something, but finding only empty air.

She could already anticipate the long fall, the way her bones would twist, her skull cracking against the cobblestones.

But the impact never came. Two strong arms wrapped around her, and she was yanked back to the surface in Nathaniel’s solid embrace. His scent enveloped her—a delicious blend of his skin and his clean clothes and his cologne. She clutched at the material of his coat like he was her lifeline.

His eyes were on hers, and she was sinking, sinking. She couldn’t catch another breath, her chest feeling too tight, her heart drumming. Why was she not afraid? Why was she not pushing him away, eager to let go of him and put as much distance between them as possible?

Instead, she felt quite safe, quite protected, despite the dogs still barking.

“Thank you…” she murmured.

“Sit!” cried Violet, and the barking stopped. “You scared the poor cat and your poor new mistress.”

Without breaking eye contact with her, Nathaniel nodded, then gently let go of her.

To Calliope’s surprise, all three beasts sat at the bottom of the stairs calmly, looking between Hazel, Calliope, the girls, and Nathaniel. The smallest one looked up at the house. Poor Miss Furrington sat on the triangular portico, her tail slicing through the air, her terrified eyes on the dogs.

“Brother, but you must admit that we do need some repairs now,” demanded Violet, looking pointedly at the broken wooden railing so weatherworn it looked quite fragile. “Calliope almost broke her neck.”

Nathaniel’s gaze hardened as he stared at the sharp edges of the railing. “Indeed. I will repair this myself. There is some wood in the shed. I will fix everything else in the house once my inheritance is returned to me…” His hot gaze dropped to her stomach, and Calliope’s insides clenched in delicious anticipation and cold dread.

And then something she hadn’t thought about became very, very clear.

Tonight was their wedding night, and he was eager to impregnate her.

12

London was dark beyond the window when Calliope followed Nathaniel into his bedchamber after dinner.

Her skin prickled as she watched the muscles of his broad shoulders move under his navy coat as he lit tallow candles in the candelabra standing on the round table. The door slowly swung shut behind her, and he turned to her, his angled features so handsome in the golden candlelight, her heart could break.

His high cheekbones looked even sharper in this light, his gorgeous eyes surrounded by long, curly eyelashes like clear pools. His strong, straight nose, full, wide lips and angular jawline were all such perfection one could paint countless masterpieces inspired by him. A high cravat was wrapped around his long, thick neck that swept down into the broad, manly shoulders with muscles like boulders. Did he have real flesh under his clothing or artfully carved marble?

Calliope’s throat was dry, her lips parched. His gaze was dark and piercing, as though he was attempting to get under her skin, to uncover her soul and all her secrets.

“May I offer you some wine?” he asked.

She’d already had two glasses at dinner, and usually that was all she allowed herself. But her feet were weak, and she didn’t like how she couldn’t stop clutching her hands and picking at her cuticles. Anything to relieve that tight knot at the base of her stomach.

“Please,” she said.

While he poured the wine, her gaze darted to the large bed standing on the other side of the room. Grandiose in its design, the bed had intricately carved posts that ascended towards a richly detailed canopy. The canopy’s faded blue silk curtains and the counterpane of the same color whispered of bygone eras, their once-vibrant patterns now mere shadows. The bed seemed as though it might have been crafted during the days of his father or even his grandfather, an heirloom passed down with the house.

In addition to the bed, there were two night tables with a few stacked books, which made Calliope curious. A small door in the opposite wall probably led to his dressing room. There was a fireplace with cracked paint and an old black grate, which was now cold and empty.

Besides that, there was nothing in the room.