The heavy oak door of her new chambers closed with a soft, definitive click, shutting out the turmoil of the estate and leaving Ashlyn in a sudden, profound silence. She leaned her back against the cool wood, the adrenaline from her humiliating confrontation with Marissa finally draining away, leaving an exhausted, bitter residue in its wake. Her cheek, where both Marissa and Lorena had struck her, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
Sighing, she pushed herself away from the door, ready to collapse into the large, canopied bed that dominated the room. But she stopped dead.
He was not asleep.
Carlos sat on the edge of the mattress, his back ramrod straight. He was still in his wedding attire, minus the formal coat, and the single lamp burning on the bedside table cast his handsome face in a sharp relief of light and shadow. The warmth and kindness she had seen at the altar were gone, replaced by a cold, stony disappointment that made her heart clench with a genuine flicker of fear.
"Where were you?" he asked. His voice was quiet, but it held the hard, unyielding quality of forged steel.
A jolt of panic shot through her. She quickly composed her features, forcing a nervous, weary smile onto her lips as she glided towards him. "Carlos," she began, her voice a fragile, breathy whisper.
"Something terrible happened at the west wing. In the Grand Duchess's chambers. I had to go and check on my sister."
She stepped fully into the lamplight, turning her head so he could see the angry red mark on her cheek. "See?" she murmured, her voice laced with manufactured pain. "I was even injured in the commotion. It was all so frightening."
She hoped the visible injury would evoke his pity, painting her as a concerned sister caught in the crossfire of her family's drama.
Carlos's expression did not soften. His gaze traveled from her swollen cheek to her eyes, and his own were sharp and perceptive. "It is our wedding night, Ashlyn," he said, his voice low and tight with a frustration that bordered on contempt. "I have been sitting here, in this room, waiting for my wife for a very long time. You were not checking on your sister. You went to the west wing to watch a show."
The accusation, so direct and so true, was like a physical blow. He was not the simple, naive second son she had pegged him for. He saw through her. The victim act had crumbled, and she knew in an instant that she needed a different strategy.
The nervous smile fell away, replaced by a look of soft, regretful vulnerability. She sank to her knees on the plush carpet at his feet, placing a tentative hand on his leg. "She is my sister," she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, letting a single, perfect tear trace a path down her unblemished cheek. "Even when she is cruel, a part of me worries. I couldn't ignore what was happening." Her voice dropped to a husky, intimate whisper. "But leaving my husband, my handsome new husband, all alone on this night…" She shook her head sadly. "…that was my mistake."
Her fingers moved from his knee to the buttons of his fine linen shirt as she stood up and sat beside him. "A mistake I intend to correct."
With slow movements, she undid the first button, then the second. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a feather-light kiss. He remained stiff, his anger a palpable wall between them. He pulled his head back, his eyes still hard.
Ashlyn did not retreat. A small, confident smile played on her lips. She let his shirt fall open, dropping it to the floor. Her hands, warm and soft, began to trace patterns across the hard planes of his chest. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the rigid control he was desperately trying to maintain. Her hands slid lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, her fingers brushing with calculated innocence against the waistband of his trousers. She felt the tell-tale hardening of his body beneath the fine wool.
A low, involuntary groan escaped his throat.
Like ice melting in the sun, his angry facade dissolved. The hard line of his mouth softened, and a slow, reluctant smile touched his lips. He looked down at her, his eyes now dark with a different kind of fire. All his frustration, all his wounded pride, was consumed by a sudden, overwhelming wave of desire.
His hand came up, his fingers tangling in the disheveled remains of her wedding hairstyle, and he pulled her closer. His mouth crashed down on hers, no longer hesitant, but hungry and demanding. His other hand went to the complex fastenings of her gown, his movements now urgent and impatient. He pulled her up onto the bed, her fine dress falling away until she lay beneath him. On a night that had begun with scheming and failure, Ashlyn finally claimed her victory, using the one weapon she knew would never fail her to complete the wedding night with the husband she had chosen.
The next morning, the sun streamed through the high, arched windows of the estate, casting long, golden rectangles on the polished floors.
Marissa was the very picture of serene grace. Dressed in the formal, dark blue dress befitting the Grand Duchess, her hair was swept up in an elegant style that left her long neck bare. A small, pleasant smile was on her lips, and her eyes were bright, showing no trace of the dramatic, exhausting events of the previous night.
She walked with a calm, unhurried pace down the sunlit corridor towards the ancestral hall, where she was to pay her first respects as a member of the Thompson family.
As she rounded a corner, a maid came rushing from a side hallway, her head down, her arms laden with a precarious stack of folded linens. Before Marissa could so much as take a step aside, the maid, Clara, slammed directly into her.
"Oh!" Clara cried out, stumbling back. The linens tumbled to the floor in a heap of white. The impact had been surprisingly forceful, a solid jolt that made Marissa brace herself to keep from stumbling.
"Your Grace!" Clara's eyes were wide with what looked like horror. She immediately dropped into a low, frantic curtsy, her face pale. "I am so terribly sorry! Miss Lorena sent me to fetch Her Grace for the ceremony. I was rushing, in my recklessness. Please, please forgive me!"
She scrambled up and began fussing over Marissa, brushing at her immaculate robes with fluttering hands. "Is the Grand Duchess alright?" she asked, her voice trembling with manufactured concern. She took Marissa's hand in both of her own, rubbing it vigorously. "You are not hurt, are you?" Her hands were clammy, and as she rubbed, Marissa felt a strange, slightly oily residue being worked into her skin.
Marissa's smile did not waver, but her mind was sharp. An accident? From Lorena's personal maid? Unlikely. She noted the strange film on her hand, the overly dramatic apology, and filed it all away.
"It's fine, Clara," she said, her voice warm and reassuring as she gently pulled her hand back. "No harm was done."
Clara looked immensely relieved. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is a blessing," she gushed, bowing her head again. "Everyone is waiting for you in the ancestral hall. The Dowager Duchess awaits your burning of the incense."
Marissa nodded graciously and proceeded towards the massive, carved doors of the hall.
Clara told another maid who was passing. " Take this linens," she said " Miss Lorena instructed me to escort the grand duchess." The maid nodded and took the basket of scattered linens and left. Clara followed Marissa a few respectful paces behind.
As Marissa neared the entrance, she passed a large, shaded alcove where a suit of antique armor stood sentinel. Peeking out from behind the armored leg was a small boy. He couldn't have been more than five or six years old, with a head of unruly dark curls and piercing, intelligent eyes. He was dressed in the fine satin and velvet of a young master of the house, but his face and fingers were hopelessly sticky from the sweet treat he was furtively munching on.
He watched the procession—the beautiful, smiling lady in the grand dress and the servant trailing behind—with a child's solemn, unabashed curiosity. He had heard the servants whispering all morning. He had seen his father, the Duke, storming through the halls earlier, his face like a thundercloud. Now, he looked at this calm, pretty woman who seemed so different from the chaos that always surrounded his father.
He took another sticky bite of his treat, his brow furrowed in deep, childish thought.
"Is she my new mother?"