Chapter Text
Elain was picking blackberries in the woods the first time she saw the fox.
She’d heard a rustle that made her gasp, and she jumped back with a handful of blackberries raised like the world’s most pathetic ammunition. The fae were known to frequent these woods. She shouldn’t have risked it, not for a handful of berries that would hardly feed her sisters for the day, let alone the week.
Nesta had been very firm in her instruction not to stray from the path. The path was safe—sprinkled with iron dust every morning by the mercenaries who protected their villages. But Elain had spied the blackberries, plump and ripe for the taking, if only because no sensible human would have dared.
Ordinarily, Elain wouldn’t have. Too terrified of the fae and what she heard they did to young, pretty human girls like herself.
But, foolishly, Elain had thought that if she could just gather enough berries, she would have an excuse to turn around and go back to her family cottage, if only to prolong the inevitable for another day more.
Today, Elain was to be married.
Sold, more like. To a wealthy Lord’s son who had glimpsed her in the square, thin and harrowed as she may be, and decided she would make a fitting wife. The Lord had made an offer to her father, though it was more accurately described as a threat. When Lords of the human realm decided they wanted something, there was little the common-folk could do to deny them. Elain’s only solace was knowing that once the marriage was consummated, her family would be looked after. That had been the only kindness offered to the Lordson’s involuntary wife.
And now she walked through the woods to deliver herself to his door, because the Lord’s son was so ecstatic for his new wife that he hadn’t even bothered to send a carriage to fetch her. It was as though she were a shiny toy purchased from the market, and she did not foresee a married life that was happy.
Perhaps that was why she had veered from the path to pluck the blackberries. Because at least if a faerie found her, she could not be blamed for never making it to Lord Nolan’s doorstep. Maybe she could even flee into the woods and they would assume she’d simply been snatched on the journey. She could try to live off the land and pray that she never stumbled across another soul—fae or human.
A fox though… a fox she didn’t mind.
It looked cute, the way its small canid face studied her through the brambles.
Elain pressed a hand to her heart and exhaled a shaky breath. “You startled me.”
Sleek, russet ears twitched forward as the creature watched her with a silent scrutiny that would have been intimidating if it were any larger a creature. One of its russet eyes had a black scar slitting through it, and she wondered if it had been attacked. There was an awareness to it that almost felt human—but Elain had always heard that foxes were extraordinarily intelligent.
After a long moment of silence spent holding the other’s gaze, she swore the fox bowed its head in apology.
“No matter,” she said gently, not wanting to startle it. “Would you like some berries? I’ve no need for them where I’m going.”
The fox watched her warily, and Elain wondered if it wasn’t judging her for risking the danger of gathering berries she didn’t need.
“I’m getting married today,” she found herself admitting to it. The fox tilted its head in a way that could be mistaken for intrigue. And because Elain had no one else to confide in, a woodland creature that seemed mildly invested was all it took for Elain to blink back tears and begin babbling, “I’ve never even seen his face before, but I’ve heard he’s wretched. Everyone’s assured me that he’s handsome—as if that matters, if I’m to be treated unkindly for the remainder of my life.”
Elain sniffed, blinking back her tears. They’d seldom do her good now. “He lives at the end of the road in this great, terrible estate that looks more like a prison than a home. There’s no one around for miles. He could abuse me all he’d like, and no one would be around to hear it.”
With a long suffering sigh, Elain used the side of her cape to wipe at her eyes. It was her final parting gift from her sisters—a red cape that still smelled of their perfumes. A blend of lilac and jasmine that would likely send her sobbing in the nighttime, clutching the fabric close as she shut her eyes and pretended she were still nestled between her sisters in their mother’s old bed. It had been cramped, but at least it was safe. She wondered if her new husband would even let her sisters visit, or if he could only stomach the company of a commoner if he were fucking one.
“Here,” she said, stretching the berries toward the fox. “I’m supposed to be well-fed at the Lord’s manor.”
The fox eyed the berries, hesitating for a moment before it carefully slunk through the bramble. It sniffed, once, at her hand. Then, strangely enough, its eyes darted to hers—as though seeking reassurance. Their eyes held as it slowly lowered its snout to her palm. She felt the brush of its wet nose, the twitch of its whiskers as it opened its mouth, and she couldn’t help giggling at the way they tickled her skin.
Those pointed ears perked at the sound, followed by the lightest, ever-so-gentle scrape of teeth and tongue against her skin. For some reason, it made her shiver. Berry juice dripped down her fingers as the fox crushed them between its teeth, making a complete mess of her hands. Elain didn’t mind, though she wondered if the Lord’s son would be put off by his wife arriving with sticky, berry-stained fingers.
Not that it mattered, because moments later the fox was lapping at her hand. She watched, horrified, as that long tongue snaked between her fingers to ensure they were thoroughly cleaned. The sensation made her feel so odd that she snatched her hand back.
“Alright,” she said, clearing her throat. Why did her face feel so hot? “I think that’s enough. I’m glad you enjoyed the berries, though I really must be on my way.”
Not wanting to dirty her single most precious belonging, Elain settled for wiping her hands on the grass rather than her cape. The fox stared, almost as though it were offended that she didn’t want its saliva all over her.
Feeling suddenly and strangely awkward, Elain stood up and bowed her head. “Well, be seeing you.”
Then she turned and ventured back down the path, all the while smothering the foreboding feeling that she was being followed.
The estate was just as terrible as she’d been described. Bordered by high stone walls so tall that not even the treetops could reach it. The armed men stationed at the stone guardhouse were less than welcoming to their new mistress, but they let her past the thick iron gates all the same.
Elain swallowed, pulling the sides of her cape closer. Once she was past the sneering armed guards—clad head to toe in armor as though they expected a siege on the property at any moment—she was able to take a deep breath.
The estate itself, on the other side of the hulking wall, did not appear so horrible. Fields and pastures, groves of swaying trees, and a glistening lake. Though, nestled beyond it was a solid, bulky fortress of dark brown stone. She wondered if she’d ever be allowed outside of it, to explore the beautiful sprawling lands of the estate. She somehow doubted it.
She was more than a little surprised that no one came to meet her along the way to the manor. No guards, no servants, and certainly no glimpse of her husband-to-be.
Elain walked slowly, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible until she eventually ambled up the front steps and reluctantly used the knocker on the heavy iron door. It opened quickly, as if someone had been waiting on the other side. Then, tall where he flooded the doorway, stood a man of such cruel, unparalleled beauty that Elain nearly stumbled backward.
His sharp, handsome face was marred on one side by a scar that ran from brow to jaw, and whatever damage that had been inflicted must have discolored his eye, for it was gold to the opposing eye’s russet. Long, scarlet hair spilled over his shoulders like liquid fire—gleaming so brightly that she hardly noticed the well-tailored jacket beneath it. Though he certainly dressed the part of a Lord there was something about him that was markedly rugged, as though he’d just stepped out of the wood. As though he’d been forged from it.
“Are you Lord Nolan?”
He looked too young to be the cruel Lord of the estate, but he had to be. Her betrothed had allegedly seen her in the square and been enamored on sight—and Elain was certain if she’d ever been in proximity to the man before her, she would have realized. Though an eerie familiarity brushed against her mind with a feather’s lightness. It felt as though she were trying to recall something from a dream.
“His son,” he said, voice rich and silken. He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed deeply. “You may call me Lucien, my lady.”
That couldn’t be right, either. Elain had been told the name of her soon-to-be-husband, and though she had diligently attempted to escape any and all discussion, she was certain his name had come up and it had never once sounded like Lucien . Perhaps Lord Nolan had more than one son?
“I-I’m Elain Archeron.”
“My wife,” he said, striking any doubt from her mind that this was the man she was betrothed to. She couldn’t help frowning that he sounded immensely pleased about it. Elain restrained the urge to tell him she was not his wife yet . He had yet to be unkind to her, something she wanted to prolong if she could.
As he stepped aside to let Elain into the foyer, she supposed she must have misremembered the name, afterall.
“What do you need, lady?” he was saying, eyes brushing over her with a scrutiny that resembled concern. “It must have been a long journey for you. I can imagine you’re tired, and in need of something to eat. I apologize for not coming to collect you myself. My father has recently passed and I’ve been handling the inheritance of the estate.”
Elain had been marveling at the entryway—easily as large as her family’s cottage and twice as grand. Though beyond that, she’d been marveling and how… militant it had been decorated. All manner of weaponry hung on the walls, swords and daggers and crossbows, mounted besides hunting trophies that made her feel ill to look at. Especially as her gaze slid to a pair of wide, russet eyes that were eternally frozen in terror, red ears pressed all the way back to its head.
Fox-hunting wasn’t uncommon. And she found herself worrying for the sweet creature that she had come across in the woods. Perhaps it had even been her husband who was responsible for its scar.
“Lady?” Lucien asked gently.
“I—sorry. I…” She blinked, finally registering his words. “Did you say… Lord Nolan has passed away?”
“Regrettably so,” he said, dryly enough that Elain guessed he didn’t have a terribly close relationship with his father.
“And that… makes you the Lord.” The air punched out of her chest and it took an effort to reclaim it calmly. If she’d thought her husband could get away with treating her however he liked, it would only be worse now that there was no one for him to defer to. No one would dare come to her assistance if it meant spurning the Lord of the manor.
“It does,” he said, his smile charming, oblivious to the way his answer turned her heart into a stone that sunk deep, deep into the pit of her stomach. “Come, lady, let me show you to your room.”
Elain couldn’t help the way the words tumbled out of her mouth. “ My room?”
It wasn’t exactly uncommon for noble couples to have separate bedrooms. If they were wealthy enough, they would even have a bedroom each that was connected to a shared, third bedroom where they could act as husband as wife. But that hadn’t stopped Elain from fearing that her husband would insist on sharing a bedroom—and on the first night it was particularly unavoidable.
Lucien, at least, seemed amused by her surprise. “Yes, your bedroom. Unless you would prefer to share mine?”
“No, milord,” she said hastily. “Separate bedrooms are perfectly reasonable.”
His smile was tight. “I had anticipated you might like a space of your own. Though I hope you will not see it as an excuse to avoid me entirely. We are husband and wife, after all.”
“Not yet,” she said, before she could help it.
And there it was—the final trigger point. Lucien’s smile fell, and he raised his hand as he stepped toward her. Elain winced, preparing herself for the strike.
It never came.
Instead, warm knuckles danced affectionately across her cheekbone. Elain opened her eyes to find Lucien close enough that now she could make out the details of his face, could see that he had a smattering of dark freckles over his golden brown skin, and that his eyelashes were the same color as his hair. They skimmed his cheekbones as he stared down at her, brows pressed tightly together.
“Lord Nolan had already signed the marriage papers before he passed, I’m afraid.” His hands skimmed lower, until his thumb found her chin so that he could press it firmly between his fingers. “And now there are two things you should know, wife. The first is that you are now the Lady of this estate and I regard that as a position higher than my own. You may do whatever you like in this house—it is yours. The second is that if there is anyone who has ever caused you to associate a raised hand with being hit, tell me now so that I may end their life by the night's end.”
It took a long moment for Elain to realize he wasn’t joking—on either account. It took her even longer to realize that those bright, burning eyes were locked on hers because he was waiting for an answer.
“I… n—no, Lord.”
“Lucien,” he said, eyes softening as he released her chin. “You call me Lucien.”
“Lucien,” she corrected in a short breath, fascinated to see the way his eyes darkened in response. It seemed Lord Nolan’s letters hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed his son was infatuated with Elain’s beauty. If nothing else, she could likely use his desire to shift some measure of power back into her favor.
“Come, wife,” he said, reaching to take her hand. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch, but Elain was certain that had more to do with where Lucien was taking her.
He guided her down a long corridor and up two flights of stairs before they came to her door. Elain was not at all surprised by the size of the manor, for she had been told the Nolan fortune was vast. Though she was surprised to find it devoid of seemingly any staff. Servants typically fell under the jurisdiction of the manor’s lady, and if there were none on this estate then… there was no one she might find an ally in. And worse, no one to witness should her husband’s kind mask ever falter.
And she would wager even the beloved cape on her back that it eventually would.
Elain had heard tales of men’s manipulations—had witnessed even her father weaponize his incompetence against his children. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security for her husband to take advantage of. Perhaps she could convince him to take on more staff, ones with no loyalty to his family name. Though if they were absent by his design, he likely knew what he was doing.
“Here we are,” he said, twisting the ornate golden handle. Heavy mahogany yielded to the site of a large bedroom, nearly as big as the cottage she had departed from this morning. She noted, with some relief, that the four poster bed was immense, and if they were made to share it they could do so without ever needing to touch. Though it was ambitious to think she could avoid touching her husband, no matter how large the space.
Lucien walked to a wardrobe, opening it to reveal a selection of colorful gowns. “I wasn’t certain of your preferences,” he said, “but I hope these are adequate until we can have a seamstress visit for you to select them yourself.”
Elain nodded. Another surface level kindness. Generous, for certain, but she imagined a Lord would want his Lady to look the part, and that gentlemen had very little interest in picking out dresses.Though, as she eyed the ones in the wardrobe, she thought that Lucien didn’t have the worst eye for lady’s fashion. They were certainly finer than any dress she’d ever worn.
“The bathing room is through here,” he murmured, ducking beneath the head of the doorframe. Elain followed, her mouth falling open as she stared at the large, porcelain tub—big enough to fit the both of them, and perhaps even additional guests.
Her husband suddenly looked sheepish. “I’m afraid there won’t be many servants to help you, these first few nights. I dismissed most of my father’s staff, you see. I thought as Lady you might prefer to hire your own, though I understand it will be an inconvenience as you adjust to living here.”
It seemed his relationship with his father had not been comprised of any fondness, but her mind spun at the concept of dismissing the staff that had likely had a hand in raising him. Had they been cruel, she wondered?
“That is fine, Lord,” she said, bowing her head. More than. She could hire staff with nonexistent ties to his family, and ensure they were loyal to her.
“Lucien,” he corrected. She stiffened at the annoyance she sensed in his tone.
In attempt to appease him, she added, “My family has not had servants for years. It will be no adjustment on my end.”
She swore that was sorrow twisting in his russet eye. “Ever more reason to have had them prepared before your arrival. As my wife, I endeavor that you should want for nothing.”
It was cheeky, but she couldn’t resist asking, “For nothing, husband?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and she sensed husband was more preferable to him than Lord . “Is there something you are after, wife? Tell me, and I shall see it done.”
“My sisters,” she whispered. “I would like to see them.”
She watched his brows clash together. “Of course you can see them,” he said, a confusion in his voice that begged, why wouldn’t you? “You can even invite them to live here, if you’d like. We have plenty of room.”
“I—Truly?” Elain searched his face, measuring his intent. “You would allow them to stay?”
“They are my sisters now, after all,” he said lightly. “And more importantly, it would make my wife happy. So of course I would allow it.”
The concept escaped her understanding entirely, but she did not have long to dwell on it as her husband nodded to the large tub.
“Would you like me to draw you a bath before supper, lady?”
For some reason, the familiarity of that question made a warmth slink down her stomach like she’d swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. More alarming was her rash and abrupt impulse to invite him to join her. She had no idea where the thought came from, or why it had even started to shape on her tongue before her rational mind clamped her mouth shut. She had never even seen a man naked, and—as far as she knew—had no inclination to see that changed. Though a bath—alone— did sound relaxing. Elain couldn’t remember the last time she’d had the luxury of sitting in one.
She nodded her head in answer, no longer trusting her voice. Lucien smiled in a way that told her he was pleased she accepted, and she wondered if there wasn’t a validity to his claim that he sought her happiness.
Lucien rolled his sleeves, displaying veined and muscled arms that reached for a selection of oils. The scent of sweet, crushed jasmine wafted towards her, twining with the steam of hot water from where he tilted the bottle into the tub. She absently wondered if he would show this same level of care once she offered her body to him.
With what she sensed was reluctance, Lucien stood up and began heading towards the door. He stopped when he passed her, pressing an errant kiss to her hair.
“I will come fetch you when it’s time for dinner,” he said, before leaving her in privacy to the hot, soapy water.
It ended up being a strange thing for him to say. For the first time she heard his footsteps return to the bedroom and saw his shadow pass in the gap beneath the door, she prepared to get out of the bath.
Yet, he did not knock, did not call for her. He only seemed to pace back and forth before the bathing room door, before fleeing the room once more.
He did it twice more, growing Elain’s curiosity with every fretful step. Did he worry about interrupting her? It seemed a silly thing to concern himself with, for she had been in the bath far longer than she was necessary. She watched his shadow pause before the door, and a small yelp escaped her when it suddenly rattled as if he had pressed his weight to it.
The sound seemed to shock him out of whatever plagued his mind. A polite knock sounded a moment later, followed by a gentle, yet strained, “Elain?”
She pressed her lips together, her stomach suddenly fluttering at the sound of his voice. “Yes, Lord?”
That earned her a moment’s silence, and she swore she could hear him frowning through the wood. “Supper is prepared. I realize I forgot to leave you with a towel.”
Her head snapped around the bathing room, confirming the dreaded news. Had that been what had concerned him so?
“Would I… be permitted to come in? I have one here.”
Elain was tempted to allow him on the condition he kept his eyes shut… but it seemed an extreme request, when her naked body would become commonplace to him in the matter of a few hours.
She released a long, shaky breath to prepare herself before she called, “Yes, Lord, come in.”
The door opened with too much haste for her liking. Lucien ducked through, a frown etched on his ruinously handsome face.
“I told you to call me Lucien,” he said, before his eyes fell on her and widened the size of a glowing sun. He swallowed, then dipped his head apologetically. “Pardon me for intruding, Lady.”
Elain couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. “You are my husband, after all. I suppose it is the expectation that you will see me naked.”
She swore she heard a deep, guttural sound rumble through Lucien’s chest, before he cleared his throat.
“A wife is still due her privacy,” he said tightly, unfolding the towel in his hands. He edged towards the tub, spreading the fabric the full span of his arms in offering. “Though, you will hear no complaints from me that I am given this additional opportunity to dote on you.”
Heat flared in his eyes as Elain carefully raised herself out of the porcelain, water sleucing off her skin, shivering as it met the cool evening air. She quickly stepped into the outstretched towel, allowing Lucien to wrap it tenderly around her body.
The cotton was warm to the touch, just as much as the bath water. She wrapped it closer, turning to Lucien with wide eyes. “Did you warm this by the fire?”
He looked sheepish. “I will leave you to dress. Come meet me downstairs when you are ready.”
Could it be, she marveled, that the same man who had so callously bought her as his wife through his father, without so much of a question towards her own willingness, was the same man who sat downstairs after worrying over providing her a warm towel?
It made no sense to her, and yet she quickly dressed herself into a pearl tea gown. Casual as it was, it was perhaps the nicest piece of clothing she had worn in years. The loose train trailed behind her down the stairs as she followed the lit candles in search of the dining room.
Lucien stood the moment she entered, eyes burning where they trailed from her still drying hair to her state of dress. It was more than appropriate for a private dinner between husband and wife, yet her face warmed and she found herself tucking the draped panels closer as she went to sit beside him.
“Did you cook this?” She asked, marveling at the plate of roast chicken and vegetables before her.
He smiled, and Elain found that the pride gleaming in his eyes was rather endearing. “Is it so shocking?”
“I expected a Lord’s son to have never lifted a finger in the kitchen,” she said honestly.
That caused him to snort, a sound she had never heard from a gentleman before. “Human Lords do tend to be useless,” he agreed.
It puzzled Elain, that peculiar wording and the way he watched her so intently as she processed it, practically inviting her with his eyes to understand his meaning.
She could only assume he was speaking of his father and the need to qualify human Lords was some reference to Lord Nolan’s obsession with hunting the fae. A quiet disapproval, in the only way that was allowed so Lucien didn’t speak ill of the deceased.
Elain nodded, slowly, not feeling certain in her conclusions. She spoke carefully, “I sense that you will be challenging that notion, Lucien.”
A smile tugged at his lips, one of such masculine satisfaction that Elain was convinced it was brought on entirely by speaking his name. Men were such odd creatures.
“I intend to challenge many things as the new Lord of this manor.”
A frightening declaration. Or it should have been, from what she had been told of her betrothed. But in the few hours she’d spent with him she’d yet to see an inkling of his famed cruelty, and his words struck no sense of dread as she might have otherwise expected. Instead she felt… relieved, thinking of the dead animals in the entryway.
“What do you intend to change first?”
His eyes met hers levelly. “Is there anything you would like changed, wife?”
She sensed it was a genuine question, so she answered, “The entryway.”
His brows rose. “What about it?”
“All of it,” she said, feeling her nose crinkle as she thought of that poor stuffed fox. “The hunting trophies, the weaponry. It is far from a welcoming sight.”
Lucien nodded. She swore she saw relief gleaming in his eyes. “Consider it done.”
Conversation became idle after that. Elain tried to focus on the meal he cooked, forcing herself to chew and swallow. She was hungry, and the food itself tasted lovely, but it was the knowing what happened after dinner that made it so difficult to finish each bite.
Elain had been fed all manner of tales about the moment a husband and wife consummated their marriage. Romantic ones, where a wife was lovingly swept off her feet and carried across the threshold. And harrowing ones, where husbands hardly gave a thought to whether or not their wife was having a pleasant time.
From the moment the letter from Lord Nolan had arrived, Elain knew which treatment she would receive. Had dreaded it the entire walk from the village to the estate, and all through dinner, until Lucien cleared their plates and returned from the kitchen.
It did not seem to hold the same gravity for her husband, the way he smoothly tucked in his chair and tossed her a careless smile.
“Is it time to turn in, wife?”
Despite all the reassurance her meal with him had supplied—she was nervous. Terrified. How much merit could she give to the version of him that she had known for a few hours, who seemed kind and clever and patient? Give Elain a nice dress and a handful of hours, and she could just as easily convince a room of people that she had never known poverty. It was easy to don a mask for a few hours, perhaps more so than coaxing a hostile wife into the bedroom.
It was all Elain could do to nod in answer. Her throat felt thick, but she continued to force steady breaths through the too-tight airway in an effort to quell her rising panic. The tears stinging the back of her eyes suggested she wasn’t doing a good job of it.
She stared wide-eyed at the mounted candlelights as she followed behind Lucien, trying desperately to banish her welling hysterics. She felt much too like a kettle boiling over on the stove, and if she listened closely enough she could have mistaken her roaring pulse for that distinct whistle.
All Lucien could likely hear were the creaking floorboards beneath their feet as he guided her back towards her room. Or perhaps not. There were a number of doors nestled beside her own and she supposed any of them could have been his.
Yet when they stopped in front of her own door, she felt all the air expel from her lungs.
She had hoped… If it were to be a terrible occasion, she had hoped it could have been done outside of the place she would be sleeping. Then she could have at least had somewhere to escape its memory.
Lucien might have turned his back and glimpsed the horror that would have plainly been on her face. Instead he stepped inside, completely oblivious to his wife’s distress—or simply choosing to ignore it. She wavered just beyond the threshold, watching him walk to the bed to begin fussing with the gaslamp at the bedside table.
It was a wife’s duty to do this for her husband. That’s what she had always been instructed. And if it had to happen—which on the first night, it must—then there were… precautions a lady could take, to ease her discomfort. It was easier, she’d been told, to surrender under the guise of enthusiasm, than to force a man to be rougher than was necessary. The breath she took was so heavy, she swore she watched it sink down, like a falling leaf, all the way to the floorboards. Pooling at her feet, the same way the fabric of her tea gown did the moment she untied its bindings at the back.
Lucien turned at the sound, eyes going wide as they were welcomed by soft, creamy skin covered only by her modest underthings. His gaze was far more shocked than heated, but Elain found herself suppressing a shiver all the same.
Somehow, she felt more exposed than she had in the bathing room. The dim candlelight painted the moment with an intimacy that made her quesy. Russet and gold traveled from the soft slope of her shoulders, over the curve of her waist, and down, until they studied the rippled puddle of silk at her feet.
His lips were parted in gentle surprise. “What are you doing?”
The chamberstick in his hand was flickering, the light dancing over his cheekbones in a way that felt oddly devoted.
“I am…” Elain glanced down at herself, uncertain how to find the words to describe what she was doing. He ought to know, as a newly married man. “I am readying myself… for…”
Lucien set down the chamberstick, shrugging off his coat with such urgency that her heart immediately began fluttering in her throat—so quickly he might have been able to see the way it jumped from her skin. Except his eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he hurried towards her, and his stripping had evidently stopped with his coat. He abruptly slung it over her shoulders, and she could still feel the phantom heat of his body as it wrapped around her.
Long, nimble fingers snagged at the top button, closing it over her chest without even needing to look at what he was doing. Only once she was covered did Lucien drop his gaze, letting out a breath that she could not interpret the meaning of.
He met her eyes, frown so severe it marked a thin line across his forehead.
“Another thing you should know, lady,” he said, voice low and rough, like a rock dragging over a whetstone. “Is that…” Their eyes met as he studied her face, searching for his words. “There are no expectations from you, in that regard. You are free to give your body as and when you please to, and not a minute sooner.”
It was a relief to hear, and still Elain felt some conditioned need to protest. To insist that she was a good wife, and that she would do what was expected of her. The only thing that truly stopped her was the look in Lucien’s eyes—scorching with intensity, to such a degree that she was silenced from uttering another word.
And so he nodded, departing into the dark hallway without another word, leaving the chamberstick beside the lit gaslamp. She might have fretted over him potentially tripping down the stairs, were her feet not leaden weights cementing her to the floorboards.
His jacket still smelled of him—like a rich forest floor, immediately after the rain. She found comfort in it, in the memories the scent evoked, even as her head reeled to think of her odd husband. She should be grateful, she supposed.
Still, she found herself staring toward the open doorway as though she expected at any minute he would change his mind and return to consummate the marriage he had gone so far out of his way to secure. He never did, and eventually Elain fell asleep, feeling far safer than she ever expected to in her new home.
And oddly, inexplicably, disappointed.