Monique, still flushed with the newness of him, still aching deliciously from the way he had claimed her, could only nod.
He was the man of the house now—her lover, her soon-to-be husband, the undeniable force that had upended her carefully ordered world.
Tradition, propriety, even her rank as duchess bent before his quiet authority.
She told herself it was modern, bold, a reflection of the progressive spirit some whispered about in the capital.
Deep down, though, she knew the truth: Riley wanted what he wanted, and she was already too deeply entwined to deny him.
Evelyn had accepted with surprising grace.
Perhaps she, too, had felt the pull of Riley's presence long before that fateful night.
Or perhaps she simply trusted Monique's judgment.
Whatever the reason, she had lowered her eyes demurely and murmured her assent, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
Now, as the wedding day approached, the estate thrummed with preparations.
