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“You are something so perfect, Marianne.”
No, I am something so definitely not!
WHEN his elegant carriage came to collect her, there was an envelope lying on the leather seat.
Dearest Marianne,
When you go today to be fitted for your wedding clothes, I have arranged for you to select new gowns and assorted garments from the modiste in town. She is French, and will guide you in selecting those items I wish for you to have. Dressing a woman is like framing a beautiful work of art. You, my dear, are the art, and so you must be framed, magnificently. Madame Trulier will have some things ready to take home with you today. Wear them for me, Marianne. I cannot wait to see you dressed as I believe is your due.
Yours,
D. R.
Reading his letter, she became flushed. The thought of Darius picturing her body in want of clothing was very intimate and made her heated. He always did that to her. His words, the looks, the smiles, the barest touch, all served to enflame her until she was unable to think or do anything other than what he asked of her. Darius understood her. Now, when she looked at him, she didn’t see a man that was not for her. Rather, she saw a man she wanted to please. She needed to. Compelled to do those things that satisfied him, she was bound to do what he asked of her.
Darius made her feel special in a way she had never experienced before. He cherished her in words and in deeds. Giving in to him felt comforting, and more importantly, safe. He would make sure she did the right things. If she followed his directions she wouldn’t be able to make terrible mistakes. Marianne couldn’t afford to make another one. Another mistake, like the one with Jonathan, would be the end of her.
Measuring tape in hand, Madame Trulier looked Marianne over carefully. Stripped down to her chemise, her body seemed to be met with approval.
“You are blessed in your figure, my dear. I can see why Mr. Rourke is so enchanted by your charms. We must arrange to show you off to your greatest advantage. Your fiancé was quite specific in what he wants, especially in regards to dishabille dress and undergarments. Mr. Rourke said only French silk for your chemises, stockings, and corsets. We shall please him, hmmm? You will be lucky to have such a husband—one who takes an interest.”
Marianne chose from those garments suggested by Madame Trulier. There were morning gowns, lounging wrappers, and gorgeous undergarments. Day dresses, evening gowns, riding outfits, and cloaks. Madame insisted on several nightdresses sewn of the sheerest fabrics—beautiful, but capable of concealing little. Marianne felt the blushing heat fill her again when she pictured herself wearing them for Darius.
“He chose this shawl for you. You will take it with you when you go,” Madame Trulier announced.
The heavy shawl was a work of art in sea-blue Indian silk, woven in an intricate design, shot through with violet, lavender, and dark purple, iridescent threads. Marianne loved it. The dancing fringe swayed delicately when she caressed her hand over his striking gift. Suddenly swamped with the desire to wear this shawl for Darius, she wanted him to see her wearing it and know she had done it for him, to please him.
I am unable to resist his allure and he well knows it.
CHAPTER 4
The Promise
“MR. Rourke to see Miss George,” Darius told the housemaid.
Too many minutes later, Mr. George stumbled into the room, announcing that Marianne was not at home.
“And where has she gon
e?”
“Walking along the shore, most likely.”
“Alone? She goes alone?” Darius frowned.
Mr. George snorted. “That girl has a mind of her own. I have never been able to break her stubbornness,” he said, chuckling. “You’re sure to have your hands very full with her, Mr. Rourke. She’ll be all yours to worry over soon enough, eh?”
What a stupid man you are, and not much of a father either. No wonder Marianne is as she is.
Darius abruptly took his leave, heading for the sea path. The thought of her alone, exposed to possible harm, terrified him.
At the rise, he scanned the sandy beach down below. There she was, looking out over the ocean. He’d seen her like this before, the wind rippling her clothes and hair forward. It looked as if the ocean worked in tandem with the wind, calling to her, pulling her in. She wore the shawl. Relief washed over him, and Darius embraced it as wonderfully welcome.
He approached, keeping his eyes trained upon her lovely neck. She must have heard his footsteps because she turned. Her eyes widened in recognition, and then they lit in a look that could only be described as happy to see him. The feelings of relief gave way to ones of sheer joy.
“Darius.” She held out her hand in greeting.
He brought it to his lips first. Then he had to touch her. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her knuckles as he inhaled, thinking how her scent calmed his agitation. “I called, but you were not there.” The disapproval in his tone still rang clear, though, as was intended.
